


Catskills

by repossessme



Category: Alternative Rock RPF, Bandom, Pop Music RPF, Rock Music RPF, They Might Be Giants
Genre: Band Fic, Bromance, Bromance to Romance, Collaboration, Developing Relationship, Epic Bromance, First Time, Friendship/Love, M/M, Male Bonding, Male Slash, RPF, Slash
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-03-15
Updated: 2014-03-22
Packaged: 2018-01-15 20:09:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,839
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1317667
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/repossessme/pseuds/repossessme
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This is the first chapter of a collaborative fic between myself and a friend. Flans invites John up to his Catskills estate, and they slowly become more than simply bandmates. The mature rating will come into play later.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Piano

Soft notes from the piano wafted through the hallway, into the den where John Flansburgh was busily scribbling something on a yellow legal pad. He stopped for a second and stared at his handwriting, none of the letters quite touched the blue lines, and his margins were uneven.

The music continued, and he relaxed his grip on the black ink pen. ‘Linnell must be playing again,’ he thought as he rose from the padded office chair behind his desk. He left the room through immense glass-paneled french doors, walked across an oriental rug that laid upon the polished wood floor, turned a corner, and found himself in the spacious living room.

The well furnished room was outfitted with several antique lamps, they glowed a warm yellow through delicate shades. The grand piano was not the focus of the room, it was in the far corner, its shiny black surface reflected the snowy view of the outside through the large bay window close to it. John Linnell was indeed seated at the keys, his eyes closed, and his head bobbing occasionally with the melodic flow of the music.

Flans paced the length of the room, careful not to make any noise that would distract the pianist. He ran his hand along the slick surface of the piano, John still oblivious to his presence. Flans watched him play, watched the veins in his hands as they worked with skill to hit the right notes. He watched wrinkles form and then shift in John’s red and navy-blue striped shirt, as he hunched closer to the piano. Though his hands seemed to move with ease, Flans noticed the narrowed brow and tightly drawn mouth of his friend, clues to the concerted effort of both brains and hands that went into playing.

He slid up next to John on the bench, and instantly the music halted. John’s hands were still in position, except they were no longer moving. His eyes slowly opened, and he turned his head to Flans. He said nothing, his expression was empty; not of disdain nor frusteration, it revealed nothing. He turned back to the piano, brought the lid back down over the keys, and began  
to stand.

“You played beautifully,” Flans said, not looking at John, but rather straight ahead. “Handel?”

“Thank you,” John sat again, “Yes.”

“Isn’t it great,” Flans faced the other man, “To have such a perfect view of the mountains while you play, or even just think?”

John nodded, eyes lowered. “It’s nice up here in the Catskills.”

“You think so? I do too.” He took off his glasses and wiped them on his shirt. “Peaceful,” he said as he held them up to the light to check for smudges before placing them back on his face.

“Thanks for inviting me up here,” John said, he glanced at Flans, then his gaze quickly returned to the ground in front of him. He watched his feet nudge the dust bunnies that had collected under the piano.

“No problem,” he patted John tentatively on the shoulder, “Why have an estate in the mountains if I can’t show it off?”

John smiled, and looked at Flans. Mantaining eye contact wasn’t easy, but he managed for a few moments. “Flans, why’d you stop me?” he motioned toward the closed piano.

“Oh, well, I just wanted to come in and see you while you played. You know, I could hear you from the den.”

“Was it bothering you?” John looked nervous.

“Of course not, and when I came in here, I had no intention of stopping you. You did that by yourself,” he waggled his index finger in front of him like he was scolding a child.

“I’m done now, anyway.” John rested his forehead against the top of the piano, it was cool on his warm skin. His breath fogged up the black finish under his mouth, and he brought his arms up around his head. He sighed softly, then sat straight up again. “What time is it?”

Flans checked his watch. “About a quarter after five.”

John sighed again. “I’m bored.”

“We should go for a walk, then. We’re all the way up in the mountains, and you haven’t even gone outside yet.” Flans stood. John followed.

“Alright, let’s experience nature,” he said weakly.

“Don’t be too enthusiastic about it or anything,” Flans joked, “Anyway, it’s winter. There’s nothing to aggravate your allergies.”

“Great.”


	2. Snow and Spaghetti

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Johns continue to struggle with their feelings in the great outdoors, and over dinner.

Flans plodded through the snow, each booted foot sinking deep into the soft whiteness. He was heading through a group of pines, though he didn’t know why. Something simply compelled him to go that certain direction, and he didn’t question it. John followed a few paces behind him, bundled tightly in a brown parka.  
  
Flans stopped walking and looked behind him. John’s hood wasn’t fastened, and it kept slipping backwards off his head. John’s eyes were trained on the ground, and his hands were fumbling with his hood. He grasped onto the fur, and pulled the hood back up over his head.  
  
“What?” He asked as he lifted his gaze, noticing now that Flans had stopped.  
  
“Having a little trouble?” Flans cocked his head to the side.  
  
“Not really.”  
  
“Did you tighten the little strings under your chin? That should keep your hood in place,” the bespectacled man offered, advancing toward John.  
  
John seemed to mull this over in his mind, and tried to decide if the effort of finding the tightening apparatus was worth the potential benefit of a steadfast hood...  
  
However, Flans was now directly in front of him, staring intently at him. “Let me try something,” Flans’ hands moved from resting at his sides to right under John’s chin. His chilly fingers brushed fleetingly against the warm skin of John’s neck as he attempted to tighten the hood. He was so close, he could hear John slowly breathing the crisp air in through his slightly parted lips. So close that when John exhaled, Flans’ glasses would fog up briefly, just enough for him to feel the warmth of the other man’s breath on his frost-nipped face.  
  
“Are you finished yet?” John seemed a bit annoyed at the way Flans was fussing over his hood, like he was a child. He chewed on his lower lip, puzzled as to why Flans had chosen to take the matter of the hood into his own hands.  
  
“Yeah, it’ll stay now.”  
  
“Thanks.”  
  
“Shall we?”  
  
“Lead on,” John instructed, his hand signaling towards something in the distance.  
  
Flans smiled at him, and turned, continuing on into the thick grove. A clump of snow slid off a branch of one of the trees, and landed on the ground with a small thumpety sound. There was a small pile of such snow close to the base of nearly every tree around them.  
  
“The woods look great in this weather,” Flans said, and sighed. He stopped once again, this time his head was facing the sky. “It’s so clear out, and the sun is in just the right spot...”  
  
“I bet the sunsets up here are superb,” John said.  
  
“Oh, yeah,” Flans agreed. “I’ve got a perfect view from the house, since it’s on the ridge and everything.” His view came back down, and he looked at John, as if waiting for him to speak.  
  
John avoided Flans’ eyes, and instead focused on one of the trees.  
  
“We should, uh, probably start walking back,” Flans began, “If, you know, you wanna make it back in time to see the sunset. From the best spot. Is that OK?” he voice had dropped, and now sounded almost shy.  
  
John wondered why this would be, why Flans was acting rather strangely. He agreed to go back to the cottage, but still, something about his friend’s behavior was bugging him. But what was bugging him even more so, was the odd feeling that had come over himself that day, as well.  
  
Perhaps it wasn't Flans at all. Ever since Flans had interrupted him at the piano, something felt a little different. Maybe he was interpreting the assistance with the hood all wrong, but even if he was, he couldn't deny the way that also made him feel, regardless of Flans' intentions. The attention at the piano, the hood, he wanted to know if there was more to it than he would allow himself to think. He was following the imprints in the snow Flans' boots made as he marched back the way they had come, and he found his eyes raising slightly, to catch a glimpse of the legs of the other man. But if it was just himself-- no, he didn't want to think about that. He didn't especially want to think about any of it, it made him question so many things, things that were supposed to be well-defined, black and white areas of his life at that point in time.  
  
The cottage sprung into view in the distance, framed by dark black mountains on either side. Even in winter, the mystery of the Catskills was shrouded in a dark veil, the white of the peaks the only reminder of their bond to the real world, the world of seasons and weather. Gray, sooty smoke spiraled out of the cottage's chimney, seemingly becoming flush with the darkening sky, nearly a matte image on the fading blue above.  
  
"Great," Flans proclaimed as they approached the partially snow-covered walkway, "The fireplace is still going."  
  
John cringed, but managed to refrain from explaining to Flans in explicit detail all the dangers of leaving a fire unattended in a wooden cabin.  


* * *

  
John was hunched over the dining-room table, immersed in a book. Flans sat at the head of the table, his cheeks rested in his hands. He had been reading and rereading the small print on the back cover of John's book for the last half hour, for some reason an awkwardness that shouldn't have existed between the two of them was keeping him from breaking in with conversation. He thought it was strange, because though John hadn't made the effort to talk, they hadn't had any problem communicating outside. Yet now that they were back in the cabin, the weird sensation that had begun to set in at the piano had returned.  
  
"So, you want some food?" Flans asked in an attempt to rid the room of the uneasy silence.  
  
John's head jerked up from the book, and then down again slightly, as if he was trying to compensate for being too eager. "That sounds fine," he decided as he kept his head level with Flans', and merely averted his eyes in the process.  
  
"Right. OK then, I wasn't counting on actually having to get up and do something," he smiled, his eyes turning up at the corners as he chuckled.  
  
John shook his head a little, to shift the few strands of hair that had fallen across his forehead. He smiled as well, more in response to Flans' expression than his words.  
  
Flans secreted himself away in the kitchen, mostly to cook, but partly to collect his thoughts. Was it possible...? That there were doubts in his mind about his feelings? He had always been sure of what he felt, always known and not had a second thought. Or was it simply his environment, his situation, chiding him, beseeching him, requesting him to act in a manner that was merely convenient?  
  
He had never been one to dwell on loneliness, or allow it to be a factor that controlled how he acted. But in retrospect, he realized there was a period of gripping, utter melancholy; periods that would only exist in short bursts, but the shared aspect throughout all of them was that they occurred when he wasn't on tour or in the studio, and wasn't in everyday contact with John. Admittedly, these instances were few and far between, which could be a key to the reason why they had gone undetected in his subconscious until now. Even the flamboyant decor of his estate couldn't hide the fact that hardly anyone ever resided there for any length of time, and when someone did, it truly was just him, alone.  
  
He was jerked back into reality as the water he was boiling, for the pasta he had decided to make, was now bubbling over the pot. He fished around a drawer for a rag and managed to sop up the scalding water, while lowering the setting on the stove to simmer. He broke the long sticks of uncooked spaghetti, and with a wispy gesture, dropped them into the boiling water. He started work on a sauce. In a small pan, he poured the base tomato paste, and some assorted herbs. He stirred with a wooden spoon, and his mind once again drifted.  
  
Flans didn't subscribe to the melodrama associated with coming out, there were no tear-filled - or even simply relieving - revelations of knowing he wasn't straight. He felt what he felt, and he dealt with it. Labels were only used by those whose weakness in examining humanity was _failing_ to comprehend every facet of mankind in all its grand variety, and thus lead to classification and broad generalization.  
  
After a time, debating things in his mind, reassuring himself of what he actually felt so as not to act foolishly, he emerged from the kitchen, spaghetti in hand. "Here," the plate clattered on the polished finish of the table, the scent of tomato and basil apparently awakened something within his friend.  
  
Linnell brought forkful after forkful of the steaming pasta to his mouth, half done before Flans had even found his own seat.  
  
"So you _were_ hungry," Flans said as he shook his head and began on his own plate.  
  
John looked up at him, flecks of red dotting his pale pink lips and right cheek, gone in a smooth sweep of his napkin. This prompted Flans to reach for his own napkin, John still staring at him from across the table. His wrist brushed against his groin, and he wasn't entirely surprised to discover the denim of his jeans hardly masking the hardness beneath. His eyes fell to the table, he felt a little ashamed, God. It was the dinner table, after all. How to go about it, though? And what did he exactly want to go about, anyway?  
  
They finished in relative silence, the clickity-clack of the flatware was audible every now and again, but there was no talking. It was as if the blinding white of the snow, now reflecting the moon, had been transposed as a barrier of sound. Flashes of conversation would come to Flans, as was his natural inclination, but he wouldn't give voice to them, fearing his mouth would betray him and reveal something to John before the statement had been properly prepared.  
  
John's fork was traversing the many sauce lakes on his plate when Flans was at his side, ready to collect the plate. "I'll help you wash them," he offered, and followed Flans through the swinging door into the cluttered kitchen. Flans sensed the other man was repressing his compulsive urge to straighten up the room, as evidenced by his suddenly nervous demeanor and the chewing of his bottom lip. He dropped his plate into the sink, and Flans followed in kind.  
  
He ran the water, added soap, and the bubbles began sudsing their way to the lip of the sink, as if they were trying to escape some watery dungeon. The two men worked together, scrubbing with sponges and their bare hands, then drying.  
  
John finished washing one of the cups, and handed it off to Flans. For a split second, their hands barely touched. A slight brushing of the skin. More an exchange of static electricity than anything else. Except, as Flans worked the caked sauce off the last pan in the sink, he knew with the water there could have been no static charge. That feeling, the strange excitement coursing up his spine and into his head, was final confirmation of what he really felt. Something he had thought at great length about, something that, even after such thought, he was still unsure of as late as this day, was now confirmed.  
  
He sensed something, and looked up. John was done, the towel hung neatly on its wooden rack, dishes stacked with care and seconds away from being placed in the cupboards. Flans stole a furtive glance at John, one which he was sure was innocuous enough to pass as something other than what it was: a look of lust and desire, eyes flitting over John's body, while the rest of his face remained relatively emotionless. He figured there was enough reason to suspect John of feeling the same way he did, indeed, that was the reason he had brought John up to the Catskills in the first place. Even the might of his own desires could never _force_ someone else feel the same; however, if they already harbored such feelings, and simply needed a push, well, that was a different animal entirely.


End file.
